Byron Day, a Picnic & Alan Bennett

(1). Human nature has been made to seek carnal pleasures.  (2). All one's efforts are in seeking this sole endeavour.  (3). Without regular pleasuring of the five senses one's life becomes strenuous.  (4).  Because man is always in need of physical pleasuring God Almighty has prepared for him the house of endless pleasures in the afterlife.  (5). This house is called Paradise because this is what is sought in one's nature.

                Hazrat Doctor Mir Mohammad.  Bukhar e Dil.

One can actually enter nearer the Anglican Chapel end via the crematorium.  I have always previously borne the long trek down the Harrow Road usually by bus but then have to walk right up back towards the Anglican Chapel.  Get there early so sit down and read my Guardian.  As the organiser (Henry Vivian-Neal) and members of the Byron Society arrive I help out to lay the tables and turn the lights on to the catacombs! Henry offers all a glass of Madeira which I think Byron wrote a poem in praise of as well. 

Henry prepared a lovely booklet with short biographies of the people on the tour whose tombs or coffins we are to visit, and the first coffin we see in the catacombs is that of Byron's friend John Fitzgibbon.  Fitzgibbon was Byron's friend at Harrow and he wrote that their friendship had 'Begun earliest and lasted longest.'  Then we see the Dent family vault but I don't recall the Byron connection and then the coffin of Augusta Leigh, Byron's half-sister with whom he had an incestuous affair: her coffin lies on the second shelf from the floor adjacent to that of her husband (and first cousin), George Leigh.  Medora Leigh, who is supposed to be the offspring of the Byronic affair is also in the catacombs but in a different place and we don't get to see her, I wonder who she rests with!?

Outside in the cemetery are the tombs of the poet Leigh Hunt, a friend of Byron's.  Hunt's poem 'Abou Ben Adhem & the Angel' was once referred to by Hazrat Khalifatul Masih IV (or maybe he referred to the original from which the poem is, perhaps, a translation).  Henry says "Like a convoy we move at the speed of the slowest member" which I like.  To the grave of Babbage – The friend of Byron's daughter Ada, interestingly or curiously enough (depending on how one takes these things) his head is not interred with the body, which lies in Lincoln's Inn for anatomy students to gloat over.  Howe Peter Browne (Marquis of Sligo) another friend of Byron, then finally to the tomb of Lady Byron which is quite difficult to visit unless one knows exactly where it is, I tried finding it on my first visit a few years ago.  The grave of John Murray is similarly hidden and we are only able to admire it from a distance.  Then Ducrow whom I must have seen a dozen times, it is a good tomb of architectural interest but there is only so much of it one can take! Hobhouse, Byron's close friend and fellow traveller and Giovani Battista Falcieri whom Byron called Tita – Byron's servant who faithfully brought his body back to England.

A pure 'Serenely Sweet' beauty whom I'm sure I have seen before (most probably here on another tour) is here in the most beautiful black velvet skirt accentuating her curvaceousness.  We all gather in the Dissenter's Chapel for recitations of Byron poems and I think of her pertness as 'She walks in beauty like the night' is read.  She asks me "Did you enjoy the day?" Eyeing out the photographs on the wall and saying "Beautiful photographs."  She has a pair of the most enticing eyes ever! 

Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine by thy beautie beeing false to me.

I should've asked to read too –

A brilliant day was had today at the regional picnic in Hainault Forest Country Park and a group of us of an intellectual bent sat on chairs in the sun and discussed the Aga Khan.  I went to the forest to which I last recall going as a child on a school trip with Northbury infants.  Much to my dismay it wasn't how I'd remembered it, not dense enough either but we pulled off some rather sweet raspberries to eat.

Oh God! No, I think I'm better at using the past tense to record what has passed rather than the present tense which I've considered using.  The decision derives from recently having immersed myself in Alan Bennett's journals and I think I'll never get the hang of it and anyhow it feels funny writing in that way so I'll give up thinking about it and shan't.

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Feminism

Now there is a strippling of white caught on the edge of things, and I wonder what would happen to us all if the planes came, and the bombs.  It's one thing to look at snow from a lighted, steam-heated room; it's one thing to walk out with lifted face and woollen clothes a few inches thick.  But to live out in that white world, to scratch for a living from the withdrawn lavender trees, the pale frozen ground.  But the squirrels would still be there, and the birds.  Long after, unless the smoke and the radioactivity (oh, Marie Curie, if you could know!) got them.  In the back of my mind there are bombs falling, women & children screaming, but I can't describe it now.  I don't know how it will be.  But I do know that nothing will matter much.  I mean whether or not I went to House Dance or to a party at New Year's.  It is amusing to wonder whether dreams would matter at all, or "freedom" or "democracy."  I think not; I think there would only be the wondering what to eat and where to sleep and how to build out of the wreckage of life and mankind.  Yet, while America dies like the great Roman Empire died, while the legions fall and the barbarians overrun our tender, steak-juicy, butter-creamy million-dollar-stupendous land, somewhere there will be the people that never mattered much in our scheme of things anyway.  In India, perhaps, or Africa. they will rise.  It will be long before everyone is wiped out.  People live in wartime, they always have.  There was terror down through history - and the men who saw the Spanish Armada sail over the rim of the world, who saw the Black death wipe out half of Europe, those men were frightened, terrified.  But though they lived and died in fear, I am here; we have built again.  And so I will belong to a dark age, and historians will say "We have found documents to show how the common people lived at this time.  Records lead us to believe that a majority were killed.  But there were glorious men."  And school children will sigh and learn the names of Truman and Senator McCarthy.

                     Sylvia Plath.  The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.  Edited by Karen V. Kulkil.  (Faber & Faber 2000).

Germaine Greer wrote an article in The Sunday Times of 2^nd July in which she writes 'I never said the sexual revolution would be pretty’.  In the 1960s she had called for women to express their sexuality (burn their bras) but now says that pole dancing, breast implants and raunch culture are destructive not liberating.  The very idea that men and women are fashioned for specific jobs whether true or not does not go down well in society today, we tend to shy away from agreeing to any strict behavioural code.  As a result, relegation of fundamental socio-ethical institutions (such as marriage or burial of the dead) to the passe plays havoc with society.  But as any Labourite would tell you "We're going up and up and up".  We've gone way too far and have done irreparable damage to humanity and the nature of life on Earth.  We live in a Capitalism-gone-awry, political-correctness-gone-mad and liberation-gone-crazy culture which is fast engulfing the entire world.  We're fast heading the way of previous civilizations that were destroyed and this is a matter of the gravest concern.  Though such apocalyptic messages have been blurted out all throughout the ages, it is not to say that the human race will be wiped out for mankind has always had a knack of surviving against all odds.

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International Urdu Literature Conference & Kensal Green Open Day

It's not just 'The shadows, the meadows, the lanes / The guildhalls, the carved choirs' that have gone. They haven't particularly, just changed their character under a deluge of visitors.  What scarcely lasted his time was a much dingier world - Churches, cemeteries, station hotels, digs, local trains, bikes, the seaside, parks, libraries. Larkin's world is no longer ours.  The unvisited church is now so unvisited it has mutated into a carpet warehouse or a furniture cave; the cemetery has been landscaped and incorporated into a heritage trail and precinct (largely pre-precinct) has swallowed the coach party annexes and the banquet halls up yards.  The fumes and certainly the furnace glare of Sheffield are no more, his awful pipe would be quality controlled and if Whitsun remains it's only on the church calendar and provokes no rush to the altar: the 'Spring Bank Holiday weddings' would not be quite the same.  

                                    Only the moon, strong, unhindered, dashing through the clouds or thinned to an air- sharpened blade ... only the moon persists in a world that, even in Hull, has changed, if not beyond recognition certainly beyond any poetic impulse Larkin had in his sad unwriting years to recognize it. This change is acknowledged, just, in his last notable poem ‘Aubade’ (1977).  Unpack the phrase 'All the uncaring / intricate rented world' and you have much of what has happened to England since his death - Or his 2 deaths, the death of the poetry and the death of the man. Typical, he might grumble, that someone in such dread of death should be made to go through it twice.

        Alan Bennett.  Untold Stories.  (Faber & Faber, 2005).  540.

People from all over the Urdu-speaking literary world. Indo-Pak TV channel reps who interview the likes of Madeline Albright, Tony Blair, Bill Clinton, drama actors and actresses (some of whom I recognised), people discussing Mir and Ghalib! Enormous beauties swaying in colourful dresses, one publisher even gives me his contact card saying he would publish my biography of Mir! Great Food! The highlight, however, is the function of Ghazals by 2 ladies - Understand why Ghalib too had fallen for a Domni - One Ghazal each of Fez and Ghalib - It is a beautiful evening and I regret not being able to attend the second day for the Moshairah.

On to the Kensal Green Open Day. I should've done some work on the poets kept there, found their graves, taken photos - Which I'll have to do at a later stage. I've still not seen the grave of Byron's wife. The Open Day is always an amazing experience as it is this year though not as much as my first time 2 years ago. I go down into the catacombs and I take some photos before leaving. 

T. S. Eliot Memorial Reading

With me, it's not a case of having left undone the things I ought to have done, I've left undone the things I ought not to have done too. 

         Alan Bennett.  Untold Stories.  (Faber & Faber, 2005).  573.

Making my way to the T. S. Eliot Memorial Reading in the Strand I think of inviting a friend along as well.  The recital is starting at 7pm but he can only make it for about 7:30 so I buy 2 tickets anyway, thinking we can make our way in half an hour later.  I want the Jo Shapcott reading (one of my favourite poets) and nobody from the Royal Society of Literature seems sure who is going first out of the 2 poets reciting and it is only to last 40 - 45 minutes anyway.  So off I trot down to Charing Cross and wait for my friend at the bus stop opposite the station when he texts me saying I ought to go to the recital and meet him afterwards at 7:45.  So back to Somerset House and the lady pays me back for the extra ticket when I tell her my friend would be too late and that I'll attend the recital on my own, I have forgotten that there is to be a discussion afterwards.  Anyway I hear Jo and David Harsent (who I have never heard of before but who actually turns out to be a terrifically good poet) and make my way down the Strand to Charing Cross.  My friend is running in the direction away from me towards Trafalgar Square thinking I am coming down that way. But I phone to ask where he is and he comes running back! Ghalib says:

I make the distance of my destination more apparent at every step
The desert runs away from me at the pace at which I run towards it

I see Jo earlier when buying the tickets but dare not approach her - A lady I always see at these sessions and who attended the recitals I gave at Morley College in 2000 is there tonight too in the front row, as well as the librarian at the Poetry Library that I have mentioned in my book Seeking Betjeman Country [Chris McCabe, who is also a poet].  Jo begins by clarifying why she has been called 'The desperado of tender thought'.  It is because the professor who called her that had written a book called The Desperados and she once sent her lyrics to the Carpenters' song of the same title who (not recognising the cowboy connection) was very baffled by it.

She starts off with the first poem from her recent collection Her Book: Poems 1988 1998, which she called 'To Her Book' because poetry books are usually very small and vulnerable.

The second poem is 'My Life Asleep'.  Explaining that her life is split between urban and rural environment and that the planes flew above her to and from Heathrow and the tube line which ran under her house made a constant noise.  She finds herself wondering if she ever really slept and the poem ends "In a paranoiac fit of madness, asking 'Who am I anyway?" The description is so vivid she said that "Those of you who know London will work out where I live".

This is followed by 'Gwaithla Brook', 'Radnorshire', 'Gwaithla Road', 'Lefn Hir', 'Glascwm', 'Rilke Spotted Above Gilwern' (this is where Rilke steps in in the book), 'Road not available':

You know how a man speaking about his mother 
Suddenly looks like her,. Mid-sentence, right there?[1]

Then 'Wye Marches' (a poem about her grandfathers, both of whom were miners), 'Llan' and 4 new and unpublished poems: 'Piss Flower' - Which is in the line of "An extraordinary number of poems about peeing, mostly by men with references to things like Golden Arc and 'Marking out territory' - I don’t know".  She mentioned being able to pee with such force as if her body lifted off into space.  And when she finishes reciting the poem she remarks "True Too".

Next came 'Hairless' about her envy of baldness.  Then 'Of Mutability' from 2004.  She says we live in an era in which poets get commissioned and she was commissioned by some neurological institute or society and even got a neurologist to buffer her up with info.  The poem is about an ability of the mind known as Latent Inhibition - To be able to shut out much of what is sensed, a filtering system lest we all be experiencing too much and go madder than we already are.  Next, a poem called 'Composition'.  The final poem is 'A Letter to Dennis Potter'.  She wonders if he would've called her "Lass" like her father did (his father too and grandfathers, miners in Wales) - "Watch out for the singing penis".  Old Butt in the poem is miners' slang for old friend.

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[1] Jo Shapcott.  Tender Taxes: Translations from Rainer Maria Rilke.  (Faber & Faber, 2002).

Temple Church & Highgate Cemetery Open Day

Temple Church was built in a round shape by the Knights Templar in the twelfth century.  It was consecrated in 1185 by the patriarch of Jerusalem.  The church features in Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code - It was built to remind the Knights Templar of their duty and to recall the circular church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.  One of Henry III’s sons, also Henry (who died in infancy) is interred here and he himself intended to lie here but was, in fact, buried in Westminster Abbey.  The chancel of the church was built later in 1240.  Sadly the church now has to rely upon Dan Brown publicity and lots of camera click-clicking tourists in order to remain open.

I walk past The Cock Tavern, where Samuel Pepys would have a drink and rest (when the gardens nearby where he usually took an afternoon nap closed down). He would enjoy the songs that were sung there and the oysters.  Well, of course! Next to it a ladies fashion accessories shop beside a flight of stairs which mean to lead to the Samuel Pepys Exhibition Room, with a sign on the door saying 'This room is temporarily closed'.  I wonder how long that has been up!

Then off a special tour of Highgate Cemetery for the Highgate Vampire Society.  I think there are about 13 of us.  We all gather first at the eastern end of the cemetery and have a walk around.  For the first time, I take some photos on my phone, including one of the Betjeman family grave and the Cedar of Lebanon which is well over a century old.

Over on t'other side by the wall with the plaques on it there is a recent memorial to a cat with little paws on't.  The guide tells us that it was for a cat that used to follow them around on the tours, sometimes even waiting for the tours to begin until it suddenly disappeared.  Unfortunately the Circle of Lebanon is closed off temporarily to clear up some branches that had fallen down into it.  There is a poignant inscription on one of the tombs that I haven't noticed before to a lady who had been 'Thrice widowed by 3 loving husbands'.  The tour seems to last a lot shorter than it usually does, even incorporating paths or areas not usually shown.  We all make our way to the literary Flask which has also seen dozens of ghastly goings-on.

The Borders: A Visit to Abney Park Cemetery

I have to queue for 40 minutes to get my train ticket because there is only one lady at the counter. When I finally get there I know what has taken the others so long, she can barely speak any English and can't tell me the way to Abney Park. She just hands me a train map: as a result I take 2 wrong trains but when I do finally get to the right station to catch the train to Abney Park and as I press the Open button the train moves along and off! I am furious – Grrrrrrr - I could crush a grape! Because the next train is not due for another hour. So it looks as if I'll have to wait another year or write to them and ask for the info regarding my documentation of poets buried in the Seven Magnificent Cemeteries. It's a poet's life! 

I visited the Abney Park ‘Myths & Legends Day’, more for kiddies than adults but  thankfully they have a tour led by a member (I think chairman) of the Music Hall Society which I enjoyed. I like the completely bombed-out shell of the chapel and the oft-remembered but little-known names about whom I must find out more.

I also see the tomb of Reverend James Mather, the first internment in the cemetery whose gravestone is erected by the cemetery friends: the first person to translate The Bible into Hindustani. They have a polite and friendly team and a good guide book has been produced. 

Funnily enough on the way my train went past the Celestial Church of Christ with the sign 'Beware of dog' on the door!

              

Abney Park is the only completely unconsecrated cemetery of the Magnificent Seven. To signify this the Gothic chapel is not built traditionally in the shape of a cross but is equal all the way round. Queen Victoria had asked for all cemetery railings to be painted black after Prince Albert's death. The Abney Park railings were black until 1995 - The entrance is floored with bricks from London Fields. Hackney Council bought the cemetery grounds on 8 January 1979 for £2. They have produced an impressive book which contains a comprehensive history. It is an amazing place and the guide was a brilliant old energetic lady. We saw a scarlet, black and white butterfly. One of the ladies on the tour (married with a child) asked if I was an historian - "Poet" I replied. She said "I think they should make everyone a poet." I wonder what she could possibly have meant.

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Here is an excerpt from Jeremy Worman's article about the powerful energies of Abney Park.  I don't know how much of it is true; I'd like to think that some of it is.  He writes:

On a bright day you would not be aware of these forces.  For this is the most verdant of spaces.  The trees make a harlequin's cloak across the acres of the dignified dead. Children, parents, young lovers, move between the sun's shadows.  Dogs, cats, squirrels, mice, wander cheerfully.  Birds flourish.  The winding paths take you into such dense green spaces that you almost believe that London no longer exists.       

         In a rainy autumn there is often the strange sense of being touched, by hanging branches, bushes, leaves, spider's webs, slugs' slime.  In once had the fear that if I stayed too long I should be encased in ivy.  Tender lover defies oblivion.

The reality of perished flesh under one is chilling.  The writer goes on to mention the sapling with printed note (of which there are numerous photos on Flickr) that says 'Please stop stealing my flowers.  You are upsetting me very much.  I am David & Tom's mum, Margaret.  Thank You.'  The brothers both died in their twenties in 1993 and 2002.  Abney Park is a place of contrasts: lover's trysts abound: 

Recently I came across lurid pink handwriting scrawled over an old stone headstone: 'Here lies Popadom, may she rest in peace.'        

      There is always the hint that chaos may break through.  This anxiety is at its strongest in autumn or winter, especially after twilight.  In certain spots nature itself seems to have become unnaturally fecund: ivy hugs the curves of graves, tombs and benches like forbidden lovers.            

         Once, a glue sniffer, a large man with a skinhead haircut, his face stiff and his lips dribbling, jumped out of the bushes in front of me.  Another time I passed on quickly as two people copulated noisily behind some trees.

Concerning the imposing chapel, he writes:

The presence of this building haunts the cemetery and to stand close to it, even on a sunny day, is to feel depressed.  So much effort came to this.  Through the locked steel fence I can see dogshit, old clothes, rubble.     

         God has abandoned this building.  There used to be occult symbols - a pentagram, an ankh, an upside-down image of Christ on the Cross painted on to the church.  

On a bench outside the chapel was the inscription: 'Do what Thou Wilt is the Whole of the Law,' a quote from Alister Crowley, the most evil of magicians.

       In the eighties there were articles in the local press about Satanists and witches holding ceremonies here (I gather there is still a group of black magicians practicing their craft in the locality).  These inscriptions have now been removed, yet to stand here at night is to sense a force that is frightening. 

                      (Jeremy Worman.  'Abney Park N16'.  Pen Pusher, November 2008).